


Zen and the Art of Fairytales

by nyghtertale



Category: Life
Genre: M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-11
Updated: 2011-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyghtertale/pseuds/nyghtertale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they were making the documentary, the first question they asked Ted was how he met Charlie Crews.</p><p>(Regarding the warning, there's nothing explicit, but there is a reference to a non-con prison encounter.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zen and the Art of Fairytales

When they were making the documentary, the first question they asked Ted was how he met Charlie Crews. Ted, already uncomfortable in front of the cameras, lied through his teeth. He shared too much of Charlie already, with Constance who kept asking Charlie for things he couldn't give, with the police who gave Charlie a purpose and kept his mind occupied during the day, with Jack Reese, who kept Charlie's mind occupied at night. With the camera crew, who thought they had the right to broadcast every intimate detail of Charlie's life in the name of ratings and human interest stories.

Besides, the truth would have made for a terrible story.

He gave them the basic facts: he'd been in for two months, Charlie had already served ten, they'd struck up a conversation during lunch one day, became friends. He wasn't explaining it well to the reporters, he could see the skepticism in their eyes, their professional bland smiles. It made him more awkward, made him stammer, and look away, and there was no hiding the relief from the camera lens when Charlie strolled into the kitchen where they were filming and Ted could fade into the background. It was just- to make them understand, he'd have to make them understand what life in prison was like. And he didn't have the right words to explain that. Or maybe the truth was that he didn't want to reveal that much of himself. Prison might not have damaged him as obviously as it had Charlie, but some habits were hard to break.

Or maybe the real truth was that he didn't want to go back there, not even in thoughts. Ted had never been brave, whereas Charlie... Charlie didn't know how to back down from anything.

Or maybe it was because Ted didn't understand it himself. Couldn't explain why one day Charlie had just...

 

"You ever read fairytales?" Crews asked, dropping into the seat next to Ted.

"Ah," Ted stammered, torn between answering no, and coming off ignorant, and yes, and coming off like a wuss. Which, to be fair, he was. Luckily, it seemed like any verbal response was sufficient for Crews, because he was already continuing on.

"I don't mean the modern, cleaned up Disnified fairytales," Crews said. "Is Disnified even a word? Anyway, I'm talking about the originals. Where Cinderella made her stepsister dance until her feet bled."

"Err," said Ted. He wasn't certain if standing up and moving away would be the wise course of action. There was a defined hierarchy in prison, and while he was pretty low on it, everyone knew that ex-cops vied with child molesters for life expectancy. But Crews didn't seem to realize how badly the statistics were skewed against him. He had, in fact, gained a bit of a reputation, staring down the guards and the gangs with equal recklessness. Also, anyone who'd spent that much time in solitary must be borderline insane and ready to snap.

"They're not really children's stories," continued Crews. "Did you know in the original version of the Little Mermaid, every step she took on land felt like being stabbed with knives? I think it's a metaphor for what happens when you end up in the antithesis of where you're supposed to be."

"Um," said Ted. You didn't need a degree in business to interpret that statement, not from a cop in prison. "Do they still end with happily ever after?"

"You know, they do." Crews smiled, a little lopsided because he was still healing from his latest encounter with the latinos, but sweeter than most inmates could've managed. Innocent was the word Ted thought of, which was stupid considering the crime Crews was in for. "This has been good," Crews said. "We should talk again sometime." He stood up, as suddenly as he'd sat down, and patted Ted on the shoulder as he walked off.

"Yeah," said Ted, watching as Crews disappeared into the crowd of milling prisoners. The bell rang, signaling lunch's end, and Ted cursed, realizing he'd barely touched his meal. He didn't spend much energy thinking about Crews, didn't spend much energy thinking about anything other than himself, actually, and how he was going to make it twenty-three more months.

After three weeks in prison, Ted had realized he was never going to develop the preternatural senses that alerted some inmates of encroaching danger, or let them twist out of the way of a shank, or not get cornered in the laundry room. But he was generally aware enough to notice when someone sat down near him. He might have the survival instincts of a duck, but he did have some. Somehow, Crews managed to bypass them, stretching out on the bench behind Ted without him noticing. At least until he spoke.

"You ever wonder why we don't have more words for sun?" Crews asked, out of the blue. He was staring up at the cloudless California sky, eyes crinkled against the sun's glare.

Ted blinked.

"Eskimos have thirteen words for snow. We should have more words for sun. It's unbalanced."

"I think it's more unbalanced that we have 350 days of sun, and they just have, you know, snow," Ted said, lowering the book. The latest Jeffery Deaver novel wasn't that engrossing. In fact, he was pretty sure it was based on Hank's crimes, over in cellblock D.

"Thirteen different types of it." Crews seemed impassive, probably that zen thing he was renowned for, but Ted could see the corner of his mouth turning up, delighted that Ted was playing along with these weird conversational gambits. What the hell, it wasn't like Ted was busy managing portfolios or anything.

"Isn't that an unlucky number?"

"It is." Crews was looking at him, blue eyes intense and piercing. Ted couldn't imagine what he was seeing. "Maybe that's why they get so much snow."

"Could be," Ted allowed, "but I don't think the world works that way."

Crews arched an eyebrow. "Are you a pessimist, Ted?"

"I think I'm more of a realist."

"But what is reality? ‘At any given moment, I open my eyes and exist. And before that, during all eternity, what was there? Nothing.’"

Ted didn't have anything to say to that. Crews seemed content with the silence, because he didn't say anything further, just stared up into the sky. After a minute, Ted went back to reading his book. He read the same paragraph five times, and put the book down. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for shapes in the clouds. I've spotted two seahorses and a squid so far."

"I meant, here," Ted gestured between him and the bench.

Crews kept gazing at the sky. "Serving the sentence pronounced by the good state of California."

"With me," clarified Ted.

“Don't you think you're worth talking to?"

"I think there are a lot more interesting people around here than me."

"You don't seem interested in any of them."

"I'm not very social."

"Neither am I. See, we have things in common. I think we should be friends. Don’t you want to be my friend, Ted?"

"Sure," said Ted, because he liked being agreeable.

"I used to have lots of friends," Crews mused, the shadow of a cloud passing across his face. "Or at least I thought they were friends. They never visit. Or call. Or write."

"I know the feeling. I think they just liked me for my money."

"I don't know what they liked me for. If I knew, I might know why they don't like me anymore."

Ted guessed they didn't like him because of the brutal murders he'd committed, but didn't say anything. It didn't seem like a good thing to say to a friend. "People can be hard to understand," he said, instead. "Doesn't your zen book have a pithy quote on the topic?"

"It says the past does not exist except in memory." Crews frowned. "Do you think that looks like a whale?"

Ted shook his head, and went back to reading in companionable silence. For the first time in a long while, he felt the muscles in his back unknot.

Things progressed over the next month, and Ted grew accustomed to Crews randomly disrupting his routine. Ted was getting accustomed to a lot of things. The worst thing about being in prison, Ted thought, was that he could feel the way he was adjusting to it. The way he started looking forward to Tuesdays because that was apple pie day, or feeling pleased about mastering the new equipment in the laundry room. The way being treated as a second-class citizen by the guards was becoming something acceptable. The increasing ease every time he was forced to ask, nicely, for things he used to consider a right.

The way he would keep his head turned away and eyes down when the rumbling in the cell blocks changed tone into something deeper, darker, more serious and the air became charged and tense. Ted had been in here long enough to know it presaged a fight. He walked extra careful to ensure no one bumped into him, stayed away from the popular areas of the exorcise yard. Crews had to feel it, too, had to recognize the warning signs, yet seemed to pay it no account.

#

Ted watched as Crews stared down the leader, as he stepped in way too close, and whispered something in the guy's ear. Ted watched as the guy backed down, as he waved the rest of his gang off, walked away from an easy fight. The obvious interpretation was that Crews had promised to make sweet with the leader, but Ted was somehow absolutely certain that wasn't it. He didn't realize he'd moved until he found himself standing next to Crews, the wall no longer safe at his back, and the eyes of the rest of the yard staring at the two of them.

"Crews," he said.

Crews said nothing, still focused on where the others had walked off to. Ted moved to touch him on the shoulder, but hesitated, something in Crews manner giving him pause. He was standing so stiffly, as if any movement would spill out uncontrollably.

"Charlie," Ted said, and again, "Charlie."

"Yeah."

"It's over."

"Yeah."

"Why don't we go sit in the shade?"

#

Ted's watched the Shawshank Redemption, he knows that finding tax loopholes for the guards isn't going to lead anywhere he wants to be going. It surprises him to realize that he really is done with crime. The money wasn't worth this, and for a shortcut it's taken him too far off path already. He's not sure what he'll do when his stretch here is over. No one reputable would be willing to hire him. But he's not, he swears to himself, going to take the easy path.

Charlie's kept his spot at the table, kept anyone from stealing the food from his abandoned plate. "What was that about?" he asks, guileless.

Ted's eyes flicker to him and back to the mashed potatoes that probably were never actual potatoes. He knows Charlie well-enough by now to know just how sharp a mind Charlie hides behind random comments and fake smiles. "It's nothing," he says. Ted's a decent liar, better than most people realize, but then most people don't pay attention to details. But Charlie's letting it go for now, turning the conversation to the latest philosophical zen statement from his tapes. Ted concentrates on eating.

#

"The only thing you have in common with them is your insistence that you're innocent," Ted snaps, pulling his arm away. He immediately feels bereft, which is stupid, when Charlie's the one looking like he's been stabbed. He knows Charlie caught the backhanded compliment, that Charlie's not a thug, but he also knows Charlie caught the implication that Ted doesn't believe in that proclaimed innocence any more than Ted believes Hank's.

Charlie doesn't say anything, doesn't reach out, doesn't swing at Ted, doesn't even meet his eyes, and after a minute Ted babbles an excuse and slinks away.

That night Charlie gets in a brawl and ends up in the hospital ward with two cracked ribs and a black eye. It's more than a week before he's back in general population and Ted can see him. Ted doesn't know how to apologize. He's not even sure it's appropriate. He dithers for a day, two days, and then he gets his nerve up and marches over to where Charlie is reclining against the chain link fence, face tilted back to absorb sun, eyes closed, zen audio tape playing, as if half the guards and most of the inmates don't want to see him beaten to a pulp.

"Charlie," Ted says, helpless, and one blue eye cracks open, no surprise at seeing him. Ted can't tell if it's because Charlie actually knew who was approaching, had figured it out from his fucking footsteps or something, or if it's because he's gotten scarily good at that zen thing.

"Yeah, Ted?" Charlie asks. There's nothing in his tone to indicate he remembers the fight they had, it's still full of friendship and acceptance and Ted doesn't know what to do with it. Maybe Charlie's found a way to forgive and forget, but Ted can't. If Charlie is telling the truth, then too many people have already betrayed his trust, and Ted can't be one of them. Charlie deserves better.

"I don't like violence," Ted says, and it's not an apology and it's not an explanation, but it is true. Charlie tilts his head, studying Ted like he's a crime scene and Ted just lets him. Lets him read whatever he wants, because he doesn't need to hide anything from Charlie. Charlie knows everything important anyway, maybe not the details of what happens after Ted loses the fights he can't always avoid, but that's not anything that needs to be said. Not like Charlie hasn't ended up in the hospital ward more times than either of them can count, picking fights he could've avoided, and Ted never says anything about that.

"I don't like violence," Ted repeats. "And sometimes you do."

Charlie is stone-still under Ted's regard. "To do violence against others is to do violence against oneself," he quotes.

"Yeah, the thing is," Ted says, "sometimes I think you do want to do violence against yourself."

"Why would I want that? You'd have to be really screwed in the head to want to hurt yourself, wouldn't you?"

Ted notes Charlie hasn't actually denied either statement. There were reasons he didn't want to have this conversation with Charlie, and part of it is he's not very good with people and he doesn't want to fail Charlie. If he were Charlie, he'd probably segue into something about how people used to drill holes in their skulls to let out the pressure. Instead, he says, "I don't know why you think you need to punish yourself." The because you haven't done anything wrong, haven't brutally murdered your best friends, remains unspoken, as pretty much everything important between them is.

Charlie is excellent at reading between the lines, but terrible at taking people at their word. He's also stubborn, but Ted's learning to work around that.

"Unless it's for spilling my cup of coffee last month," Ted says and watches a bit of the brittle hardness leave Charlie's eyes as they move on to a safer topic.

"I gave you my cup."

"You'd already drunk most of it. Plus, you add too much creamer."

"Ted," Charlie says, as they get up to head back inside.

"Yeah, Charlie?"

#

"I guess I'm just an optimist," Ted says, dryly.

"I guess you are," Crews says, and lays his head against Ted's thigh.

Somehow, Ted thinks, we'll find a way to live happily ever after.


End file.
